


those three little words

by oftheworld



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Soft Eve Polastri, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, a journey to an i love you, and soft soft soft, eve gets the emotional breakdown she deserves, in two parts: one for each of their braincells (:, post 3x08, silly and a little bit serious, softies, they are dumbasses and they are in love, they are feeling and they are trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25900819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftheworld/pseuds/oftheworld
Summary: She doesn’t know if Eve is ready to hear it yet. She doesn’t even know if she is ready to say it to her. But maybe she can say itather, instead. That, she can do.ORVillanelle tries to work herself up to telling Eve how she feels when it went oh so wrong the first time. Eve processes some stuff. They both get there, eventually.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 38
Kudos: 259
Collections: Bitter Old Fandom Queen’s Rec List





	1. Progress

_“The heart is the most resilient muscle. It is also the stupidest.”_

_\- 90s Nike ad campaign, “Falling in Love in Six Acts”_

Progress is a funny word. 

It always catches awkwardly in Villanelle’s mouth, feeling slow and heavy. Perhaps that is on purpose, she thinks, because that is how the thing feels to her too. Heavy. Slow.

They are watching a movie. Or, rather, Villanelle is watching the movie. Eve is snoring softly, legs tucked up to her chest and body pressed into Villanelle’s side as the movie reaches its dramatic conclusion. Sticking out her tongue the tiniest bit in concentration, Villanelle reaches slowly for the bowl of popcorn still nestled precariously in front of them, trying hard not to wake Eve in the process. 

She isn’t the slightest bit mad that Eve is asleep. This was not a rare occurrence—she was usually knocked out by the time they got to the credits. It was not necessarily how she had pictured this whole movie-watching thing going, true. And there was no way in hell that she would let it stop her from eating the popcorn. But it was nice.

She liked how relaxed Eve looked. Relaxation was not really a common state for either of them these days, what with being on the run from The Twelve and spending most of their time plotting to take them down. Carolyn had gone back on her whole “cold-turkey” thing pretty fast. _And_ she had bought turkey sandwiches in a (rather weak) attempt to apologize to Villanelle for calling her useless and being really quite mean before she had had a “change of heart” (by which Villanelle was very sure she was referring to a phone call with a very angry Eve upon learning what happened. Safehouses were small, and she had been quite shouty).

A dramatic gasp from one of the characters draws her attention back to the screen, where the main couple of the film has finally made up (about time) and is now passionately kissing. In the rain, no less. Villanelle rolls her eyes. So cliche. Just as she is wondering if this film has a sex scene, and if it will be hot, she hears them whisper it to each other. _I love you_. She feels something inside of her twist. 

She looks down at Eve’s sleeping head, her beautiful hair, and the little bit of drool in the corner of her mouth. _You don’t know what that means._ Her heart clenches. Oh, but I think I do now, she thinks. I do now. 

She doesn’t know if Eve is ready to hear it yet. She doesn’t even know if she is ready to say it to her. But maybe she can say it _at_ her, instead. That, she can do. Just to see how it feels.

Not paying attention to the TV anymore, she listens to Eve’s slow breathing for a moment in order to assure she is fully asleep, then speaks quietly. “I love you.” And it feels different this time. Then it had been all confusion, and hurt, and desperate, desperate want. Eve was right. She hadn’t known what it meant, not really. She’d only wanted to. 

But that felt like it was so long ago. She has made progress, she thinks. _They_ have made progress.

This time is much calmer and lighter. There is no need for a reply—nothing attached to it. 

It feels so good to speak it now. Like this time it could actually be true.

~

A few days later, sitting in their little kitchen, Villanelle stares across the room at Eve and thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try it again. For science, of course. Eve’s hair is up in a messy bun and she is chopping vegetables, humming softly to the radio as she works and oh, Villanelle could sit here watching her forever, if the world would let her.

“I love you,” she breathes, so soft she can barely hear it herself. 

“What?” Eve says, looking up and smiling at her. “I couldn’t hear you.” Of course she didn’t, Villanelle thinks. It was on purpose that she had said it quietly. And also in Dutch.

“Nothing,” she says, shrugging, but she can’t help the smile that spreads slowly across her face. And she starts to jokingly bounce along to the music, her terrible dancing causing Eve to throw her head back with laughter, the moment entirely forgotten.

It becomes a kind of habit after that. It could be like practice, she thinks. To make sure that the voice in her head, the one that said _no, that’s impossible, you aren’t able to_ , starts to shut up. To make sure that when she finally says it to Eve, and Eve hears it, she can say it right. 

So she says it when Eve has just left the room, while she is loudly washing dishes, when she is blasting music through her headphones. She says it in every language she knows except for Russian and the ones Eve knows also. She traces the shapes of the letters onto her back, and says it muffled under blankets and pillows. She was getting quite reckless, really, but Eve never hears. Thank god.

Though sometimes she almost wishes she would.

She wants Eve to know. To know that just because they weren’t saying it doesn’t mean that it isn’t true. But no. Not yet. She doesn’t know what Eve will say. And as painful as losing her has been before, she knows that now, now that they live together and laugh together and watch movies together it will hurt a million times worse. She knows it will end at some point. It is too good not to. But she really needs it to last just a little bit longer.

Maybe there is another way, though, Villanelle thinks. A workaround. 

She grabs her computer and tries to ignore her embarrassment as she types. Thankfully, Google takes mercy on her and she only manages to type three words before she sees what she wants, clicking eagerly. _How to tell someone you love them without saying I love you._ Brilliant. Normal people wondered this too, then. That was comforting.

She sits there with her computer so long she starts to feel a bit stiff, poring through article after article, compiling a mental list. These ideas were good, she thinks. That evening, she casually brushes off Eve’s comment on her being “suspiciously smiley,” and she sleeps like a baby. 

~

Showing someone you love them was not as easy as the internet made it seem, apparently. 

At first, it had appeared to be going well.

_Offer to help cook._ She already does this. Eve’s cooking skills are rather...limited.

_Buy small “just because” presents outside of a holiday or birthday._ This one was easy too. She buys Eve presents all the time. She loves shopping for Eve. Easy-peasy.

_Go an entire day with your partner without saying anything but positive praise._ This is where things had started to go downhill. When Eve had emerged from the bedroom and Villanelle had enthusiastically complimented her outfit, Eve had just stared at her concernedly, then glanced down at her own turtleneck before asking Villanelle if she was feeling well.

_Send an intimate text message to your partner for no reason._ This one did not go well either. Eve did not seem to appreciate the very nice photo she sent of her tits (along with a few choice emojis), shooting back “I am meeting with Carolyn!!!!” with four angry exclamation points. Four! That was not the kind of excited that she had been going for.

_Light a candle or two when you have dinner together to make the atmosphere more romantic, just because._ Okay, maybe she had gone a little overboard and bought a little over two candles and _maybe_ it was justified that Eve had freaked out when she saw them all over everything and yelled something about a fire hazard. But it had looked quite cool while it lasted.

_Brag about your partner in public. Yes, they may turn beet red if they’re shy, but they’ll appreciate it._ Another failure. A million different emotions had flashed across Eve’s face when Villanelle had mentioned offhandedly to Carolyn how good she was in bed, but she didn’t think that appreciation was one of them.

Villanelle isn't stupid. She knows that love isn't supposed to be as easy as the movies make it seem. She had learned that a long time ago. But still. Ugh.

~

Maybe it is because of all her goddamn candles, or maybe it is because this whole love thing is weighing on her more than she thought (unlikely), but Villanelle starts dreaming of fire. The flame starts small—a comfortable warmth. But it soon grows angry, its hue turning from orange to blue to black as it engulfs her, flooding her with heat and then, suddenly with freezing cold. 

Her eyes shoot open and she awakes, gasping. Damn candles. But her breath slows as soon as she sees the pile of curly hair beside her. The pile rustles a bit, groans, and then stills. She feels herself smile. She hadn’t woken her. Good. She shifts to be closer to her, nestling ever so gently into her chest and feeling an arm sleepily reach for her, holding her tight. 

As she feels Eve’s soft breaths wash over her, she feels her eyes sliding shut again, suddenly overwhelmed at how soft and safe and goddamn _nice_ this feels. She basks in this nice-ness, lets it lull her back to sleep. When she is teetering on the edge of consciousness, so close she might even already be dreaming, she hears herself whisper in the language she thought she had banished deep within her. 

“Я тебя люблю.” _I love you_. 

Three words whose sounds and their contours she had tried so damn hard to obliterate from her memory. And for the first time, they don’t feel like sandpaper against her tongue or in her ears. They just feel warm, she thinks, smiling again as snores finally overtake her. 

~

The days go on. They move safehouses again, and she continues down her list. It wasn't _all_ bad. For every couple ideas ending in near disaster, there are some that end in...not-disaster? And she thinks that maybe this is progress, too.

_Tell them how special they are to you. This goes beyond just saying, “I love you”._

They are watching another movie when Villanelle suddenly decides to try and say something. To put words to her feelings, albeit maybe not _those_ words. 

They are nestled comfortably on their faded leather couch, bluish light from the TV dancing across them. The music crescendos, a character weeps, and Eve nestles her head softly into Villanelle’s shoulder. Her heart pounds. Out of nowhere she remembers a nanny, and a baby, and she thinks of what was for a long time what she saw as a completely incomprehensible reaction to your own imminent murder and an utter failure of self-preservation. She feels all of a sudden like she might burst if she doesn’t say _something_. She gathers her courage and looks down at Eve. 

“You are like the baby from the bin.”

“ _What?!_ ” Eve removes herself from her shoulder and looks at her, eyes wide and looking about 5 seconds away from launching into a tirade on how _really, Villanelle, we were having a moment_. 

Oh. This was not going well already. She breathes deep, and searches for the words.

“I could not understand why she cared. The nanny. The baby wasn’t even hers, but she cared _so much_.” Her eyes widen for emphasis. “She did not even mind when I killed her.”

“You killed a _baby_?!”

“What? No. Just kidnaped for a few days. What do you think I am, heartless?” She feels a twinge at her own words.

She does have a heart, though. She knows this because it beats loudly and annoyingly whenever Eve is in close proximity, beats so hard she thinks her chest might just explode. She does not want it to, but it does anyway. This is how she knows that she isn’t making it up.

"No. I don't think that." Eve smiles. Her heart thuds as if to prove her point.

“Well I took very good care of the baby. He got some very nice meals out of it. The best in Barcelona.”

“Where does the bin come into this?” Eve frowns a bit, then “or do I not want to know.”

“Oh! The baby annoyed Dasha, so she put him in the bin. Dasha was shit, but it was _so_ funny.” Eve’s facial features look like they’re having a fight with themselves over whether to look amused or concerned. She sees this. “The baby went home to his family again, don’t worry,” she adds. And then swallows. “They were pleased.”

She fights a wave of _something_ again, that same something that she had pushed away as soon as the word “heartless” had escaped her own lips. This something made her want to fold in on herself, but Eve seems to sense her struggle and reaches out, gently stroking Villanelle’s thumb with her own. Villanelle stares at their thumbs and suddenly feels better. How does Eve do that? Hurt her. Heal her. All in an instant. And now her beautiful brown eyes are looking at her so intently, trying to understand. Oh, Eve.

“I think I get why, now,” she says, looking up at her face. “Why the nanny was being so stupid.” A breath. “Because I think, if you were the baby, I would be very very stupid too.” She swallows again and waits, feeling as though she has just said something _huge_ , but Eve just blinks.

“Mmh?” is all she gets, as well as Eve’s eyebrows twisted up in that adorably confused expression she so often wore. Or maybe she just wore it a lot when she looked at Villanelle. Well, either way. It was cute.

“You are cute.” Villanelle says, because it is true, and she thinks that maybe she should just try again another time.

“I am, huh?” Eve’s confusion is gone now, and she smiles, moving to kiss her soundly before snuggling once again into her neck and turning to look back at the screen.

Okay. All in all, it could have gone much worse.

Progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Credit for a lot of V's list goes to [this article](https://www.lifehack.org/567969/how-tell-someone-you-love-them-subtly-yet-sweetly-100-ways-provided). I cannot actually vouch for its effectiveness. Part II will be in Eve's pov, and will be posted soon! 
> 
> Please forgive all the mistakes, I don't think I've written anything fictional since seventh grade when I was forced to write a _Fault in Our Stars_ fanfic for a book club. I hope you enjoyed reading it nonetheless!


	2. Love

_"There are no monsters in the world, and no saints. Only infinite shades woven into the same tapestry, light and dark. One man’s monster is another man’s beloved. The wise know that."_

_\- Katherine Arden, The Winter of the Witch_

Eve thinks too much. She has been told this all her life.

Her dad hadn’t minded, had smiled at her intensely contemplative expressions, no doubt pretty funny on a child. Her mom had laughed then, too. But as Eve grew older, she had become increasingly frustrated with what she deemed “a waste of potential.” All that thinking hadn’t ever really paid off, she had said, hadn’t turned her into anything worth being proud of. When she had told her that she had decided to study criminal psychology, her mom had just scoffed. Eve had smiled sarcastically and flipped her off. 

She imagined that her mother would react much, much worse if she knew that lately the object of her overactive thoughts had moved from criminal psychology to one particular criminal, one who was almost certainly wanted in most European countries but who also smelled like cardamom and made the best damn pancakes Eve had ever tasted. And oh, she would just _love_ to see the look on her mother’s face if she knew that she and said criminal are now practically living together. 

Well, not practically. They _are_ living together, Eve thinks with a shiver. I mean, it was because an international crime organization wanted them dead. Two safehouses was out of the question, especially after they had both agreed that they would rather be together than apart. 

So, they were living together now. Villanelle made frequent jokes about it—“this is just what relationships with other women are like, Eve”—but it still felt big. Especially considering they hadn’t yet gone even a full year without almost killing each other. _Not conventional._ Even still, Eve had found herself very okay with this development; after all, something was different between them now. Like after a storm. Things might still be a little choppy, but they somehow both can sense that the worst has passed.

She is finally learning all the answers to her questions, and more. She learns that Villanelle loves tea with honey. She learns that she thinks in French, usually, and sometimes English. Never Russian. She learns that she likes to draw, that she hates grapes, and that she has seen the movie version of _Matilda_ upwards of 8 times and always used to wish that she was telekinetic (“A telekinetic assassin? How cool would that be?” “I know right!!?”). She learns her favorite poems and her deep dislike for artificial strawberry, her surprising skill at cooking and her complete uselessness with baking. 

She thinks that she will never run out of questions. She tells Villanelle as much, one day, and she smiles big.

“Good. Because I will always have answers.”

And Eve knows just how much that means, that she isn’t just saying “I will answer” but also “I will tell you” and, buried beneath that, “I trust you.” They had come a long way from Paris, from Rome, from the bus, where they couldn't even stop guardedly watching each other long enough to kiss. They had danced, they had turned, and they had spent weeks slowly learning to trust that they were past hurting each other. 

Eve isn’t the only one with the questions, either. Villanelle asks about her too, and often. She now knows that Eve likes horror movies. That she hasn’t missed a Sunday crossword since she started doing them with her father at age 7. She knows that Eve and her mother don’t really talk (“I don’t talk to mine, either!” “Yes. I’m aware.”). She knows that Eve likes her coffee black, that she bites into ice cream instead of licking it (“Eve!! And they think _I_ am the psychopath.”). She knows the names of Eve’s childhood pets and of her favorite books and of the dishes her dad had made that she had loved most growing up. 

She had expected it to feel weird, at first, to know this woman that had spent so long living in her head. It had definitely been strange, after the bridge, to go from having met Villanelle face-to-face only a handful of times to full-on cohabitating with her. 

But what she hadn’t expected was that it felt even weirder to be known herself, to have Villanelle take such keen interest in finding out absolutely everything about her. It shouldn’t shock her, she thinks, since she felt exactly the same way. But then again, she had spent so long caught up in the _Eve, she’s a psycho_ and the _wake up, she is an actual assassin_ to really consider what she thinks she had sensed all the way back in that bathroom, staring into those gorgeous, catlike eyes: that it was all a lot more complicated than that. _You are so many things._

She can’t help but think of Niko, who had, at one point, loved her fiercely, but who had in over 10 years never known her quite this well. He had never felt like he needed to. He’d found her a little scary, at times, maybe, if he went too deep. At the same time, Niko had sometimes acted like she was so _fragile_ , and Eve had absolutely hated that. She was anything but. Villanelle doesn’t hold her like she will shatter. But she knows by now that she cannot go down the road of comparing Villanelle to Niko—it hurts too much, for too many reasons. 

All she knows is that it feels really good to be here with Villanelle. They watch movies and talk for hours. They have mindblowing sex, yes, but they also hold hands, and cuddle, and laugh until they can’t breathe. They annoy the fuck out of each other. And Eve hates that she has never been happier, given all that it took to get here. She thinks that neither of them deserve it.

It is weird, Eve thinks, that she has hardly cried, what with all the thinking and the talking. They’ve been shuffling through various safe houses for weeks with their lives in a semi-concerning amount of danger. They’ve talked about everything—they had so much to cover, after all. Villanelle has cried many times, and she was supposed to be the one who didn’t feel. Eve, on the other hand, hadn’t cried at all, aside from the occasional lone tear. 

_Do you ever think about the past?_ Yes. But also no. Because she thinks about it _all the time_ , yet something about the enormity of it all still has yet to hit her. How everything is different now, how maybe Eve prefers it that way, how she is, and has been, in danger but how laying in bed, just breathing and playing with the soft little flyaways where Villanelle’s hair meets her forehead, she has never felt more safe. 

She wonders when it will all catch up to her. These things always seem to come with no warning. 

~

When she finally, inevitably, breaks, it is because of a stupid junk email. 

She’s at the kitchen table clicking boredly through her spam inbox when bright colors catch her eye, and she pauses momentarily on some ad for a stupid cheap gift store that somehow had her on their list. Why not. It’s not like she has anything better to do. 

She snorts a little at some of the more gag-type stuff like whoopie cushions and pickle air freshener. She feels the slightest bit tempted by the “portrait of your DNA” as she scrolls down through various groupings of gifts.

_For baby._ She wrinkles her nose. 

_For the traveler._

_For the gamer._

_For the one you love._ And she doesn’t think, not even one bit, before picturing Villanelle and how absolutely disgusted she would look if Eve ever bought her something as cheesy and dumb as a body-sized cupid pillow or a little stamp meant to press heart-shapes into pieces of toast. Toast!

She only then registers the choice of words and their implications.

_Oh_ . She sees the letters blur together, melting into a weird puddle of _love, love, love_ , and the tears start to fall. 

“Eve?” Suddenly, she hears a worried voice from the doorway. 

Eve’s brain is not working, and “Toast” is her whispered response, weakly gesturing to the screen as she starts to cry harder. 

“Eve.” Now Villanelle looks downright concerned. “What happened?” The words Eve herself has asked so many times. God. So much has happened. _So much._ Things that she has pushed out of her mind for fear that when she finally lets them sink in she will either care too much, or worse, not at all.

“Eve,” she hears again. And suddenly Villanelle is next to her, and hugging her, and Eve doesn’t know what to say.

So she just holds Villanelle and sobs. She sobs so hard she can barely breathe, and she half expects Villanelle to make some desperate attempt at humor, or to freak the fuck out because why is this happening all of a sudden? But no, Villanelle just holds her, her arms strong and steady as she cradles Eve’s head and this makes her cry impossibly harder, that she somehow knows Eve just needs her _there_. 

Eve thinks.

She thinks about Kenny, and about Bill. About Keiko, their baby's blanket, their baby. She pictures Elena, and Jess, and Hugo and an ocean of mugshots and crime scenes. She sees hospitals and ancient ruins. And then, her. Her eyes and her smile and her soft blonde hair. She thinks about the look on her face when she killed Peele, the look on her face when Eve makes her laugh. The sparkle in her eyes when she learned that Eve could speak French, too. The pain in them when she talks about her childhood. The way they scare each other. The way they surprise each other. She thinks of how Villanelle seems to really see her and of how she sees Villanelle, not just in her humor and beauty but also in all her danger and her fury, her capacity for things that are so thoughtful and ones that, yes, are heartless. Yet she cares and cares and _cares_. Because it is her. All of it.

And oh, it always leads back to her, doesn’t it. Even during her (extremely warranted and long overdue) breakdown after all the shit that has happened to her in the past couple years, her mind drifts to the woman who is the cause of most of it, who happens to also be the one whose familiar arms and hands and perfume feel like the only things tethering her to earth right now. 

Eve holds her tighter. She thinks that she feels odd shapes being lightly traced onto her back, feels more long fingers stroke her hair. Her breathing settles, and for the first time in so long, she feels lighter. 

She looks again at the garish pink letters of the email. _Love, love, love._

~

She didn’t like to think about it. Love.

Villanelle has been acting really weird lately, which Eve suspects is because it is also on her mind—the whole _love_ thing. And probably the whole relationship thing is weird for her as well, given her history. Eve hates that it is for herself too, that deep down she knows that she had been kind of a shitty wife, at least by most people’s standards. Her mom had also blamed this on thinking too much, and working too much, too, but maybe Eve had always known that something just didn’t fit. 

She hasn’t said anything yet, though. She feels guilty, because she thinks that probably Villanelle has never wanted to hear anything more than those three little words. Eve hurts when she thinks about how few times she had heard it, and the even smaller number of times that she hadn’t later doubted how true it had been in the first place. 

But. But. Eve is also scared. To put it out into the world. Not because she doesn’t know if she loves her. And definitely not because she wonders if Villanelle feels the same way. She knows, now. And this is the best and worst part. She definitely knows that Villanelle loves her. She feels it everywhere. And she knows that she loves her right back. _Love_. Fuck. How did they get here?

She isn’t going to pretend like it was perfect. It wasn’t a fucking fairy tale. They fought, of course (with words, not weapons). At the beginning there was the occasional broken dish or punched wall. Neither of them ever claimed to be the best at coping with anger, and it definitely didn’t help that mid-argument Villanelle would sometimes cheekily recite pearls of relationship wisdom from god knows where. Probably fucking AA (why the hell did Eve ever send her to AA?).

But they never physically harmed each other. And they are getting better, Eve thinks, as the weeks go on. Better at giving each other space when they need it and better at knowing when that is. Better at admitting mistakes. Better at putting words to how they feel.

There is less explosive anger from both parties. Now, Eve will spot Villanelle after an argument lying buried in the pillows on their bed, blasting heavy metal music at top volume as her fists clench, and even in the midst of her own anger she knows that Villanelle is trying. God, she is trying. 

And god, does that just make Eve love her even more.

~

So, yes. She thinks it often, now, but telling her is a whole different can of worms.

Eve returns from buying some groceries and begins unloading the produce onto the counter. Villanelle enters to greet her and immediately pouts, eyes fixed on the vegetables. Oh god, Eve sighs. What now?

She looks them over, mentally checking off the ones that she already knows Villanelle likes. Or at least, that she had seen her eat before without comment. Eventually she settles on the culprit.

She looks up to find Villanelle still glaring at the counter.

“Sweet potatoes?”

Villanelle nods grimly.

Eve barks out a laugh. “You don’t like sweet potatoes? Huh. Why?”

“I am just not a fruits person, Eve”

“Sweet potatoes are vegetables.”

“No.”

“ _No_?”

“They are sweet.”

“That is so not how it works.”

Villanelle plops dramatically onto the couch and shrugs. “Potato, potah-to.”

“You,” Eve points a finger at her, “think you are _so_ funny.” She fights back a smile. “Wait. What are just-potato potatoes?”

“Vegetable.” She nods firmly for emphasis. 

“Wow. Your mind never ceases to amaze me.”

“I know. I am amazing.”

Now Eve really can’t fight the smile that spreads across her face. What a ridiculous human. Eve wonders how she had ever thought she might be able to walk away from her in the first place.

_I love you, I love you, I love you,_ she thinks.

But that gets caught somewhere, and what comes out instead is a muttered “Shut up, asshole.”

God damn it.

~

She should just suck it up and tell her, Eve thinks for the thousandth time, as she watches the way Villanelle’s face is squeezed in concentration, frowning as she crouches by the radio. 

They had just finished dinner, the dishes washed and dried and put away, when Villanelle had turned around and told Eve that she didn’t want to watch a movie tonight. She looked a little unsettled, and Eve was instantly worried, because she had been acting weird lately, sure, but this was going a bit far. But as she opens her mouth to ask what is going on Villanelle whirls to face her again, having finally found a suitable station, and she holds out her hand.

“Dance with me?” She says, and Eve realizes she wasn’t unsettled. She was _nervous_. 

Eve suddenly feels so warm.

“Who, me?” she says, and Villanelle rolls her eyes as a gorgeous waltz fills the room and then they are moving and tripping over each other and laughing. She thinks, if someone were to look at them, they would almost look _carefree_. Almost.

One song fades into the next. She doesn’t know how long it is until the music switches from loud and happy to something slow, still happy, but in a way that is almost sad, too. They are barely moving now, just holding each other close like they had months ago in that dance hall, eyes closed and hearts pounding. Eve feels a light kiss pressed to the side of her forehead, so softly, so gently.

“Oksana,” she sighs, before even realizing that she has spoken. She immediately feels guilty. She doesn’t say that name often. It seems to make Villanelle uncomfortable, and Eve doesn’t blame her. But it just slips out.

She feels the other woman tense briefly, but moments go by and they continue to sway together, close as can be, until she thinks that maybe Villanelle has just chosen to forget about it.

~

Villanelle doesn’t forget.

“Why did you call me Oksana?” She asks suddenly, a couple of days later. “When we were dancing. You don’t do that, usually.”

Oh. “Oh.” Eve is a little startled. “Um, I don’t know? I mean, I knew you as Villanelle first.”

Villanelle hums. “And you know Oksana, you think, now?”

Eve scrunches her eyebrows together. “Maybe. Sometimes you do something and I think of Villanelle, but it is only Oksana that seems to fit.”

She hums again and is quiet for a minute. “You know, Villanelle and Oksana are not two different people,” she finally sighs. “I am them both.”

“Yeah. I used to wish that they were, I think. Different.”

She expects Villanelle to look sad at that, but she just nods. “I do too.”

“Did. I did.”

“What?”

“I don’t wish that anymore.”

“You don’t? Why?”

“Because I love them both. So why would I be mad that they are one person? We only have so much space on the couch. And you steal enough of my popcorn as it is.” She chuckles, nudging Villanelle playfully. It’s only when she doesn’t hear a laugh that she realizes what she just said. 

Oh. Well. It’s about time.

She turns to look at Villanelle. Her hazel eyes are wide and she blinks a couple times. Eve watches her carefully, watches her eyebrows twitch up and watches her blow a breath out through slightly pursed lips in such a familiar mannerism that it fills Eve with warmth and she thinks _thank god._ Because it needed to be said.

“You what?” comes a whisper. 

Eve moves closer to her. “I love you,” she says, staring deep into her eyes, pleading for her to believe it. Daring her not to. She expects a shaky response, but suddenly something seems to clear in Villanelle and her eyes gleam, an awed smile starting to pull at her lips.

“I love you, too,” she speaks, achingly genuine but also clearly, confidently. As if she has said it a million times before.

They sit there, smiling at each other like absolute idiots. Their faces are now so close that their noses softly brush, which just makes them smile harder. Eve lifts one hand to Villanelle’s cheek and the other to rest softly over her heart. Villanelle’s expression shifts back closer to one of awe, as she shakily brushes a curl behind Eve’s ear, the familiar gesture instantly reminding them both of Paris—a bed and a knife and a promise. And a whole lot of shit after that.

Eve’s brain positively whirs with it all, and Villanelle seems to sense it.

“I am not sorry,” Villanelle blinks.

No, Eve is really not either. Not one bit.

Then they are kissing. And Eve is thinking, fuck it if they don’t deserve it. She is thinking, they are here now, and it is so good, and she is so happy. Then Villanelle pulls her closer, and she stops thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely comments on part 1! They really made my week. I really hope you enjoyed the second part just as much! I wrote and rewrote some of it a bunch—Eve's brain is so wonderful and complicated and I wanted to try and get it right. I hope it worked out okay! Thank you so much again for reading!


End file.
